the very edge
by charlotteicewolf77
Summary: your master is there, standing on the very edge of the cliff, looking calmer now than you've ever seen him. trigger warning for suicide
1. Chapter 1

For some inexplicable reason, you are drawn to the cliff tonight, the _why_ ceases to matter as soon as you see _him_. Your master is there, standing on the very edge of the cliff, looking calmer now than you've ever seen him. Unease coils in your gut, something is wrong but you daren't move closer.

"Sir," you say.

He looks around, smiling a sad little smile. "What-ho, Jeeves," he greets, but it's lacking its usual cheer and your gut coils tighter and you open your mouth but cannot make a sound. He turns back, moonlight reflecting off his golden curls, "Do you ever think about it, Jeeves?"

You swallow, "Think about what, sir?"

"Suicide," he shrugs, "kicking the bucket, all those sorts of things."

You're struggling to breathe now, "Sir, please, come away from there."

A tiny little laugh that's nothing like his usual one, "Scared I'm going to jump, Jeeves?"

"Yes," you surprise yourself with your honesty, but he doesn't even blink.

"It would be so easy, Jeeves," he tells you, so quietly that you have to strain to hear him. "All I'd have to do is step off here, or buy some laudanum. Everything would go to you, of course, old thing. That's been sorted for a long time."

It might be sorted but nothing is _right_, Bertie Wooster did not contemplate killing himself. He was your enthusiastic, mentally negligible, childlike, happy young master; not a depressed, morose person who looked to be seriously considering jumping off a cliff.

Something in you snaps and you stride forward, take hold of his hand and pull him roughly away from the edge, all sense of propriety abandoned. You don't stop until you both are far, far away from the dreaded edge and you look at your young master.

He is shivering, in just pyjamas and a thin jacket with bare feet, lips blue and eyes full of hurt. You carry on staring, chest heaving with the adrenalin coursing through your system, until you pull him into a hug, long past caring if your actions put you back in unemployment. He stiffens before relaxing into your embrace, sagging slightly which only makes you grip tighter.

"I wasn't going to jump," he murmurs, but you both know that's not true.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why?" you ask, voice breaking the heavy silence of the room.

You brought him back to the manor, luckily alerting no one that the pair of you were still awake. You had gotten him into thicker, warmer pyjamas and lit a fire in the grate; he is still shivering slightly but his lips are no longer so scarily blue and his fingers are able to wrap themselves round the cup of tea without it shaking precariously. Both of you are still shaken by the close call, so much so that you even leave off your customary 'sir'.

He shrugs, thin shoulders moving the thick material only slightly. "At school," he starts slowly, "well, you know how it is, Jeeves. Young boys… experimenting in the dorms, I never really got involved- didn't really get involved in anything social, really, after my parent's deaths. One boy- a bit older than the rest of us- he said he liked the look of me, said he wanted to _experiment_ with me. I said no, kept saying no for ages, until one night it was just the two of us there; the rest of them had gone to see the circus but I was recovering from a bout of flu and he was being punished. He pulled off my bedclothes- felt bally cold when he did that- and didn't care that I was saying 'no' over and over."

You have no words to say, no words to comfort him and to soothe the pain he is experiencing, to calm the torment he feels and you stand deathly still, refusing to move should it break the spell.

He takes a sip from his cup, scrubs a weary hand over his face, "After that first time, a lot of the other boys in the next year up must have heard and pretty soon I was being approached from all directions and I just… didn't fight it. I just felt numb, like nothing mattered." He looks up at you, eyes wide and empty, face wan and you find yourself hoping he hasn't gotten sick from his night-time jaunt. His eyes meet yours and he blinks back into the present, seeming surprised to find you still standing there.

You gesture towards his cup, "Would you like some more tea, sir?"

He shakes his head, "No, don't worry about it, old thing- I feel rather tired anyway."

"Of course sir," you reply, taking his cup and placing it on the tray before turning down the covers.

He sighs, slipping under the covers and wincing as sore muscles pull and you feel a pang of guilt. Before you can leave, he wraps a hand round your wrist, "Do you think I'm a fool, Jeeves?" he asks softly, afraid to meet your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat and you know this is about the bicycle ride. "Bertie," you start, hoping that you will be able to say the right words to make this better, he raises his head- you only call him that in the most intimate of moments, "Bertie, you are the best man I have ever known- and what's more, you have never been and nor will you ever be a fool."

He turns pained eyes further towards you, "For the first time Jeeves, I find myself doubting you."

"Sir, you are kind and gentle and you treat everyone with dignity and respect. You never fail in trying your utmost best to help your friends and relatives with no regards to yourself- _those _are the qualities of a truly smart man- not his intellect or intelligence. And I shall repeat this as many times as is needed until you believe it as well."

He gives you a small smile before leaning forward and planting a gentle kiss on your lips, chaste but emotional, "Goodnight, Jeeves."

You pull the covers over him and brush your lips over his forehead, "Goodnight, sir."

A/N: this story is set after the bicycle ride.


	3. Chapter 3

You had hoped that it would get better the further away you got from Brinkley Manor.

You were wrong.

He did not get _worse_, and yet he did not get better either.

~0~

"Sir," you tell him gently, "you have to eat."

"I'm not hungry," he replies, voice muffled from the pillow over his head.

You sigh; pull the covers up over you both to ward off the morning chill. "Sir," you try again, you are not quite _begging_, but it is close. "Sir, you need to _eat_."

"I'm not hungry," he repeats, almost burrowing into the mattress.

"That is of no importance," you reply. Because honestly it's been 4_ days_ and he's barely eaten _anything_ bar a couple of meagre slices of toast you practically had to force down his throat.

But he is not giving up on this, just as you are not. "I'm not hungry," he says again.

"_Please_, sir," you murmur, blinking rapidly as you feel your eyes start to burn.

He sighs, weariness clear for even a deaf person to hear. He rolls over onto his side to face you, fingers toying restlessly with the corner of the pillow case. "Why should I, Jeeves?" he asks softly. "It isn't like anyone would really miss me anyhow."

"I'd miss you, sir. Very much so, in fact."

He smiles at you but it's _dead_. Empty and dead just like so many of his other smiles are now that you really think about it. "Thank you, Jeeves," he murmurs softly.

You can't find it in you to smile back, "I'll go and make you some toast, sir." With that, you walk silently from the room.


End file.
